


The words upon my skin

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Body Paint, Come Eating, M/M, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Writing on the Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:04:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4691354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curufin helps Malgor prepare for a public performance - in his own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The words upon my skin

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by the wonderful amyfortuna.

Three finishing brush strokes, and a hibiscus bloomed on Macalaurë's naked chest, under his left nipple.

Curufinwë trailed the brush to the side, lifted it with a sweeping gesture and held it aloft, contemplating the motifs he had almost completed. 

“...we should hurry,” Macalaurë said, writhing slightly at the tickly sensation of the paint adhering to his skin. “The audience begins soon.”

“Does it?” Curufinwë purred – a sound too mellow not to be devouring – his hand stopping in mid-air as he returned the brush to one of the five small paint-filled porcelain cups placed on a tray next to Macalaurë's head.

“I have to be there. You know Grandfather asked me -”

“You are only ready to go when I say you are,” Curufinwë peremptorily said, laying the brush over the red paint-cup. “I have to finish this, brother dearest. The public can wait.”

He selected the brush for black, dipping it quickly into the paint. He added tengwar to the design, words Macalaurë couldn't read, but could make out if he concentrated on the direction and sequence of the strokes – not an easy feat with his brother sitting on his thighs, naked as he himself was. His own hands lay listless above his head, groping futilely at air with every silky-wet touch of the brush. His cock twitched at each stroke, small bursts of pleasure which tested his endurance, and kindled ardour that not even haste could hope to curb.

The brush circled around his right nipple – úrë – and he held his breath, waiting for the tree dots that would write _au_ and possibly his own name, though he wasn't sure if the consonant preceding it had been lambë or rómen, and he hadn't paid attention to the beginning of the word.

No tehtar were painted. The words branched and snaked their way from his chest towards his limbs, and Macalaurë lost track of them. Curufinwë was an astute adversary, and not loath to exploit his advantage. He left words unfinished on purpose and started others, then completed those he had abandoned, leaving no part of Macalaurë's chest and sides and shoulders untouched. His hand remained always firm and as impeccable in its movements as Macalaurë's own hands were when he played, as they would soon be in front of an expectant audience.

“Stay still,” Curufinwë ordered, stooping forward. Their cocks pressed together. Curufinwë swirled the brush – the one dipped in red again – up the curve of his armpit, dipped it in the cup again, and continued to write along the inside of his arm, bending until he had to support himself with his left hand planted on the floor. “Turn your hand.”

Macalaurë twisted his wrist so that his palm lay flat above the cushion on which his head rested.

“Good,” Curufinwë said, and started drawing their emblem on it, in dark red, gold and white, to stand out against Macalaurë's golden skin as if enamelled, the only visible part of the design, the one the eyes of all the assembled dignitaries would be trained on during his performance.

He repeated the same on his right arm and hand, then sat straight again.

Macalaurë's body was a breathing canvas of beauty, lust, and love.

Curufinwë smiled broadly, and put the brush away. He pushed the tray to the side, causing the little pots to rattle and some of the paint to spill on the polished wood. Then he arched over Macalaurë, laying his forearms on either side of his head, to kiss him. 

Macalaurë gladly opened his mouth to let Curufinwë's tongue plunge into it. His own met it and the two coiled and slithered hungrily against each other. 

Curufinwë sucked Macalaurë's spit into his own mouth as he pulled back. “While we wait for the paint to dry properly -” he said, deliberately letting his words fade into suggestive silence. 

He slowly slid back on his knees, never breaking eye contact except when he bent to flick his tongue teasingly against Macalaurë's navel, grinning as his brother squirmed. He scooted further back, and lapped at his cockhead head once, before mouthing it. The index finger of his left hand traced the underside of the shaft, stopping when it reached the base of his sack, where the others fingers joined it and cupped Macalaurë's full, taut balls. His other hand began to stroke his own cock.

Macalaurë had been roused enough by the hour-long painting session to need little further stimulation but Curufinwë endeavoured to delay his release all the same, lazily fucking his mouth around Macalaurë's cock – never taking it too deep – while he brushed the pads of his fingers in fluttering circles all over his sack.

Macalaurë's chest heaved and strained, turning the painted motifs into living figures. When he finally felt the tension of impending orgasm, Curufinwë suddenly raised his head, withdrawing the last caress he needed.

He kissed Macalaurë's moist slit, and licked his lips. “I wish I could do this all day long,” he whispered, letting his mouth brush down the over-sensitised head. 

Macalaurë stifled an impatient groan. He pressed his right hand to Curufinwë's nape, pulling his head closer.

Curufinwë smirked. He teased him still with swirling licks, before meeting his unspoken need and closing his lips around his cock again. He slid them low, and coaxed Macalaurë's seed from him with steady suction. 

His own orgasm crested as he drank the last spurts of it. He collected his come in in the palm of his hand, and brought it to Macalaurë's mouth to have him lick it. 

Macalaurë did so eagerly, propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes darted down to read the words written on his chest. They focused on the letters circling his bellybutton, and delight glinted in them as he made out the closing sentence of a poem he knew very well, and which filled him with a sense of belonging and adoration to underscore the bliss he had just experienced. He wrapped his tongue around his brother's fingers as he recited the verses in his own head.

_“And I shall not be afraid to say, pace the Powers,  
That one of the Children is fairer than a Vala.”_

Once his hand was clean, Curufinwë put the tip of his index finger on Macalaurë's lips, whispering, 'don't rinse your mouth', and Macalaurë kissed his assent on it. 

It was a secret they shared – that Macalaurë would at times sing with Curufinwë's taste in his mouth, bestowed the gifts of his voice through his essence, and counted that as the highest blessing.

The same was subtly made evident in his attire, for above the heavy embroidered coat reserved for occasions of the utmost solemnity, Curufinwë fastened an intricate necklace, studded with a myriad tiny gems, in a sequence that spelled out a precise message, their own personal vow to each other.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem is based on one by Q. Lutatius Catulus (I've replaced the Gods with the Valar, mortals with children and made the first line a little bolder - 'pace' is used to mean a sort of sarcastic deference, like saying 'whether the Valar like it or not (I couldn't care less)').
> 
> Detailed information on the tengwar (shapes and names) can be found [here](http://at.mansbjorkman.net/teng_names.htm). Lambë is basically L and rómen is R.


End file.
